


Fic amnesty

by redtoes



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Deleted Scenes, F/M, Gen, Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, olicity - Freeform, what happens in vegas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtoes/pseuds/redtoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deleted scenes, unfinished ideas and tumblr prompts for Olicity</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What happens in Vegas - deleted scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back when I was writing What happens in Vegas I played with a lot of ways of ending it. This flashback was one of them but it didn't really fit with the rest of the story so got left out. 
> 
> Here it is for your pleasure

He liked to pick her up. Felicity discovered that early.

Drinks with Matty, their new best friend, had gone well with Matty confirming he knew a Vertigo dealer they could meet at a club later, and Felicity felt giddy and happy, wandering around Las Vegas on Oliver’s arm

As time had passed he had moved from the mostly platonic arm around her shoulders, to tucking her in close against him with an arm around her waist, and kissing the bare skin of her shoulders between banter with Matty.

After the first drink Oliver seemed to relax more and more, and his hands started to rove over her skin. But instead of unnerving or worrying her, she had just relaxed into it.

It all felt like perfect. Like this was what life should be. Everything was golden-tinged and happy. Radiant even.

Matty went to the bathroom and Oliver ordered more drinks from a waitress, throwing his credit card down then turning to kiss Felicity properly, resoundingly, passionately.

He pulled back and it took her a second to open her eyes.

“Oliver,” she said, her voice shakes.

“Felicity,” he replied and leaned in to kiss her again. “I’ve wanted to do that for ages.”

“Why?” She said after the kiss. It said something that she never thought to pull away from him during the kiss to ask. Instead she waited for it to end.

“It feels right,” he said, “don't you feel it?”

“I do,” she said, “but-”

“But what?” 

“I don't know,” she looked at him askance. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” he said, “I’m just happy. And you know why? Because I have you.”

She blushed.

“You are drunk.”

“I'm not,” he argued, “I know what drunk feels like. This is not drunk.”

He kissed her again.

This time his hands were in her hair and she couldn't help but moan at the loss of his lips when he pulled back.

“You feel this too,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “maybe.”

“Okay,” he said, “I can work with that.”

He picked her up bodily and sat her in his lap, then resumed the kissing

When Matty returned from the bathroom he found them necking like teenagers. Much to the displeasure of the maitre de, who insisted they pay the bill and move on as “at this hour of the day, sir, this is a family establishment.”

* * *

They trailed after Matty through the casino floors, hand in hand. Oliver occasionally stopped to press her up against a convenient surface and kiss her, or to watch Matty throw chips down on a felt surface. 

Sometimes both at the same time Oliver kissing her while Matthew gambled at whatever table was convenient.

Thy had hours to kill before the club meeting and Felicity felt like she was walking on air. Oliver was a giddy as a small child at Christmas.

“I want the rest of my life to be like this,” he said at one point, as she blew on his craps dice then kissed him.

“No gambling in Starling City,” she said, “or at least no legal gambling.”

“We could stay here,” he replied. “Never leave, just be us. Drink all day and dance all night.”

His mouth was up against her ear and she shivered at the words.

He licked the skin under her ear and she moaned softly.

“You taste amazing,” he said, “I want to taste all of you.”

“Don't get ideas,” she teased him, “I’m not easy.”

“I’ll just have to marry you then,” he said, and then walked her away from the table, leaving his chips behind. He swept her up in a bridal carry, kissing her the whole time and calls for Matty to follow.

“We can't get married,” she said when he finally broke away from the kiss to reveal that they were standing in front of the casino’s chapel. 

“We can,” he said. “We should.”

“I don't have a dress,” she said, “we don't have rings. This is crazy.”

“Good crazy?”

“Crazy,” she insists.

“Ollie!”

They turn to see Matty approach, a wide grin on his face.

“There’s a garden party I need to make an appearance at.”

“A garden party in Vegas?”

“It’s not so much a garden as a terrace,” Matty admitted, “but it should be good, come with me.”

Oliver grinned.

“Take Felicity,” he said. “I have an errand to run. I’ll be an hour or so.”

“Oliver?” She objected but he’s already kissed her hand and turned to go.

She turned surprised eyes on Matty who wraps a hand around her shoulder and starts taking about wine.

She let Matty draw her away, but she couldn’t help looking over her shoulder for Oliver.

But he was already out of sight in the crowd.

* * *

He proposed.

She said yes.


	2. Felicity's Ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this was a tumblr prompt, but I can't remember from who. The basic gist was that Oliver overhears Felicity talking about sex and realises she's not as innocent as she seems, buuuuuuuut it didn't quite go that way.

“I'm not saying that it was a good relationship,” Oliver overhears Felicity saying on the phone one evening. “I'm just saying that the sex was amazing. Mind-blowing.”

She pauses and listens and Oliver finds himself pausing too, waiting for her next words.

“Yes,” Felicity sighs, “it was by far the best sex I've ever had and you know why? Because he was a bastard. Nice guys do not equal good sex. Good sex does not come with sweater vests and reliability. Good sex,” she says, and Oliver looks up to see her sag back in her chair and the fingers of her hand come up to play with the neck of her blouse. “Good sex,” and he would swear her voice is lower, throatier, “good sex never comes with a guy who is good for you. The last time Jimmy was in town he stole 200 bucks from me and and got my car towed.”

She pauses to listen and then laughs, slowly, deeply. The kind of laugh a well satisfied woman might let out after some very very good sex. The kind this Jimmy character apparently provides. Oliver hates and loves that laugh at the same time.

“Well, yeah, obviously I’m not going to call him. No. I’m not. Stop tempting me.”

She laughs again. Oliver looks down and finds that his hands are curled into fists at the sound of it.

“Marta!” Felicity chastises, “Jimmy Dommett is bad news. I’m not calling him! Marta! Yes I know that, and I know that. And okay, fine, if Jimmy calls me, I’ll answer but I'm not sleeping with him. No, not even for you.”

She laughs again and Oliver files the name away. Jimmy Dommett. Probably James. 

“Only if you buy me tequila,” Felicity laughs, “and maybe not even then. I’m hanging up now, Marta.” She pauses and laughs, swinging around in her chair, apparently entirely unaware of Oliver, standing in the shadows behind her.

“Fine,” she says, “if I sleep with him I’ll call you. All the details, I promise. Wow you’re pushy when you’re pregnant. Gotta go, Marta, see you soon!”

Felicity hangs up the phone but doesn’t sit up. Oliver watches as she stays, leaning back the chair, her fingers playing with the open collar of her shirt, maybe even stroking the skin there.

“Jimmy Dommett,” she says, and shakes her head.

Then she sits up and returns her attention to the screens.

Oliver repeats. He and Diggle have a person to track down.

He wouldn't want Felicity to lose another $200 after all.


	3. John Diggle: Matchmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr prompt. I'm so bad at remembering who these are from. If it was you comment and let me know and I'll amend. 
> 
> Diggle playing matchmaker for Oliver and Felicity

“I bought them six months ago,” he says, holding out the ticket stub, “for Carly. And obviously, that's not something that's happening anymore.”

Felicity leans in close, peering through her glasses as the small paper rectangle in his hand.

“This is for the ballet,” she says, surprised.

“Carly liked it,” he shrugs.

“The gala performance of the Nutcracker,” she reads. “This has been sold out for months.”

“I know,” John says, “but there’s some sort of restriction about selling it on eBay, and they don't do refunds.” He sighs, “I’ll be honest with you, Felicity, I didn't particularly want to go in the first place. Carly wanted to go. And now I've got a two hundred dollar dance ticket burning a hole in my pocket.”

“I can pay you -” Felicity responds, but he waves her off.

“Consider it a Christmas present,” he says, “mine can be you on my arm making everyone jealous and pinching me when I fall asleep.”

Felicity giggles and blushes, and - finally - accepts the ticket.

“I can't pick you up,” he says, “so I’ll meet you there?”

“Sure, thanks, Digg,” Felicity says running her fingertips lightly over the printed ticket, “I haven't had an excuse to get dressed up for a while.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You were in a cocktail dress just last week?”

“Let me rephrase,” she says, “I haven't had an excuse to get dressed up where I'm not either chasing a bad guy or standing in heels in fear of my life - for a while.”

“Then it’s good you agreed to come,” he says, “I wouldn't want you to develop a complex about formal wear.”

She laughs and her computer beeps and she turns her attention back to the screen.

John smiles. Phase one complete.

* * *

“It’s a charity thing,” he tells Oliver, “profits go to a veteran’s charity.”

“I can make a donation,” Oliver says. He’s not looking up from the papers on his desk but John doesn’t take it personally. Oliver Queen, CEO, is used to buying off problems.

“The donation’s already made,” he says, “what I need now is your face.”

Oliver looks up at that.

“It would mean a lot if you came,” John says. 

“Then I’m here,” Oliver replies instantly, and for half a second John feels bad about the duplicity.

“Tell Felicity,” Oliver adds, “so she can put it in the diary.”

“It’s already there,” John replies, “and hey, she’s coming too, so it should be fun.”

“Ballet, fun,” Oliver grins, “well, there’s always a first time.”

John smiles.


	4. Thea and Verdant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt! If it was yours let me know!
> 
> Thea wonders why she can't turn the basement lights off at Verdant

She hires Roy immediately. Neither of them are technically old enough to drink at Verdant, but they can both certainly work there, and if she's going to pick up the shattered pieces of her family’s name and her own trampled self esteem, she wants at least one friendly face by her side while she does it.

She leaves Oliver’s name on the lease but it’s Walter’s on the liquor license. Calling her stepfather had been one of the first things she did when she got home to find Oliver gone the day after Tommy’s funeral. 

Walter didn't pick up and for a second she had slumped down on the sofa, feeling bereft and lost and alone. Then the doorbell had sounded and Thea had wiped the threatening tears away and walked through the house to find Walter waiting for her, with a sympathetic smile and the explanation that seeing as he was already here he thought he’d prefer to see her immediately and not dawdle on the telephone.

He might not be married to her mother anymore, he said, but he would always be her stepfather.

He didn't even mind when she got snot and tears all over his tie, but then, it had never bothered him before so she wasn't sure why it should make a difference now.

Her first day at her club is odd. She immediately regrets wearing her heels, having not realised just how much damage the building had taken in the quake. But Thea Queen will not be dissuaded by mere rubble. She’s weathered death, destruction and that one really bad Fall-Winter collection that included far too much orange. A few piles of stones and broken glass aren't anywhere near enough to phase her.

What does bother her is the large metal, code-locked door tucked away in the corner of the bar. She checks the plans and it’s just listed as basement storage space, but the locksmith she calls out to dismantle the keypad throws up his hands and admits defeat after four continuous hours of tinkering. Far beyond anything he’s ever seen, he says.

She pays him anyway, because even though his ad said she only needed to if he succeeded, four hours of anyone’s time is worth some sort of compensation. And God knows she has the money.

It takes her five minutes to get him to take the bills but in the end he leaves, cash in hand, and she takes a second to stare at the offending door.

What would Ollie value so much to keep it behind a lock the best in the business couldn't open?

It’s a puzzle she wants to solve, but it isn't like there aren't other things competing for mental space. Running a club is a lot closer to a juggling act than she’s ever thought it would be. For half a second she’s impressed with Oliver, then she remembers how nothing even started to happen on the club development until Tommy got involved, and that brings a sad smile to her face.

There’s just too much in her life to keep wondering about the door.

Until the end of each night when she turns off the club lights and she turns, surveying her domain and feeling satisfaction at a job well done, and she notices the thin crack of light around the edge of the frame.

It’s barely noticeable amongst the dim illumination of the club, but when all the lights go down, it’s there.

Not always but often.

Sometimes she swears she can hear noises from the basement, but when she presses her ear to the join between the metal door and frame there’s only silence. 

When Oliver returns, she asks him about the door and gets an Oliver-standard response of “storage”. She's not sure when her big brother got the idea she was an idiot, but he must be if he expects her to buy his bullshit stories.

And still the lights are on.

She tries pulling the main circuit breaker one night, then wobbles back across the club floor using the light of her smartphone as a guide. And the lights are still on.

It's a mystery and it perplexes her.

She resolves to solve it.

But then there’s Roy to make out with on her desk and suppliers to yell at over short orders, and warring waitresses to separate and play peacekeeper with.

And so she forgets the door.

At least until the next time she spots the light around the edge of the frame.

And she wonders yet again just what Oliver is hiding. 


	5. Russian Roulette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt - Oliver, Russian Roulette

Four years. Four years of this hell.

Four years of death, pain and violence.

Four years since he was happy. 

Four years since he was loved.

And now there's a choice in front of him.

He doesn’t trust Knyazev.

But if he loses what is the worst that can happen? The gun will fire. The bullet will end his suffering.

He remembers watching The Deerhunter with Tommy - remembers that this never happened in the Vietnam war. That Russian Roulette is a fiction.

And yet here he sits with a Russian and revolver.

He lifts the gun.

And pulls the trigger.


	6. Hammocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt. Oliver and Felicity in a hammock. 
> 
> This one got long.

The Queen summer house on the coast is the kind of place that gave lie to the word “cottage”. It’s large enough that Felicity feels it almost might be ill suited for the word “house.”

“Palace” might suit it better. Or “castle”.

She stands looking up at white walls and wide windows and a porch that ran the entire circumference of the building.

Beside her Oliver laughs.

“Palace? Really?”

“I said that out loud,” Felicity says, feeling the familiar sensation of blood rising to her cheeks in a blush.

“It's hardly a palace,” he says.

“But cottages are small,” she replies, “I thought it would be, you know, cosy?”

“Does cosy mean small?”

“It does in realtor speak,” Diggle says, walking up behind them with Carly and AJ.

“Hmmm,” Oliver says, “I didn't know that.”

“Why would you?” Felicity says, “it's not like you’ve ever had to hunt through the listings for the perfect balance of affordable and death trap.”

Carly laughs and wraps her arm around Diggle.

“Do you remember that first place Andy and I had?” She says, happily. “With the bathtub in the kitchen?

“You had a bathtub?” Felicity says, a little jealous, “I and to suffer through two shower-only apartments before I could afford one with a tub.”

“What she’s not telling you is that the bathtub was the only sink,” Diggle says, “they had to do the dishes in it.”

Carly hits Diggle affectionately on the shoulder and Felicity laughs at their antics.

“How about you Oliver?” Diggle says, “you ever lived anywhere without maid service? Island excepted.”

“I made it a week or so in the dorms at SCU,” Oliver admits, “then Tommy got a place off-campus.”

“Was it a wreck?

“It was not,” Oliver remembers, “at least not when we moved in, but we did enough that we never got the security deposit back.”

“No one ever gets the security deposit back,” Felicity tells him, “it’s a myth.”

“Huh,” he says, but Felicity is walking with AJ to explore the house, leaving him behind to deal with the bags.

* * *

The weekend away had been Oliver’s idea, technically, back when he realised the club was being fumigated the same weekend Thea was spending with friends in New York. But it was Felicity who made it happen.

Or possibly Carly.

Diggle had mentioned she hadn’t taken a holiday since AJ was born and Oliver did the math and then immediately tried to force money on Diggle, who despite his best attempts always said “No”. He’d even tried to get Felicity to just slip the cash into Diggle’s account, but she had refused on the basis that John knew what was best for him and his.

Then Felicity found out that AJ had never swam in the sea and suddenly all bets were off and the five of the, were driving to the Queen cottage down the coast.

He wanders through the rooms, remembering days spent here as a child enjoying the beach and as an adolescent enjoying the liquor cabinet and absence of parents.

Now here he is as an adult.

He can hear the delighted shrieks of Diggle and AJ playing on the beach, interspersed occasionally with yells from Carly, who was ostensibly refereeing whatever game it was uncle and nephew were engaged in from her blanket on the beach.

But he doesn't know where Felicity is.

Calling for her seems like cheating, so he wanders from room to room searching for blonde hair.

He finds her on the porch, trying to string up a hammock.

It’s been long enough since the Queen family have used the house that the porch furniture has been locked away, and technically the hammock is from one of the spare rooms, but there are rings for it between the veranda post and the main wall so he supposes this was a good a place for it to go as any.

But it’s heavy and Felicity is obviously struggling with the weight of the knotted sling.

“Here,” he says, stepping in to easily lift the end over the hook and lock the clip into place.

“Thanks,” she says, stepping back and brushing off her hands.

He lifts the other end - and man this was heavy, how Felicity had brought it down here he had no idea - and attaches it to the wall.

“All done,” he says and she grins and clapped her hands.

“You know,” he says, “I could have gotten a lounger out of the basement storage for you.”

“I like this,” she says, running her hand along the roundly woven strands. “When I was a kid I always wanted to sleep in a hammock.”

“And now you can,” he says.

She reaches for the edge and tries to jump up, but the material slipped out of her way.

She tries again and again the hammock swings away.

“Here,” he says, placing his hands on her waist and lifting her. She lets out a soft “eep!” noise then seems to realise his purpose and tucks her legs up so he’s easily able to deposit her in the middle of the hammock.

“Oof!”

“You okay?”

“Yes,” she said, squirming around, trying to get purchase. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem,” he says.

But she can’t seem to position herself the way she want to be so he leans over and grasps both sides of the hammock, holding it still while she shimmies up.

Her shirt is caught on something, so as she moves it rides up and suddenly her pale skin is right there. 

She settles into position and sighs happily.

And he is all too aware of the tiny shorts she’s wearing and the rucked-up t-shirt and the fact her pony tail is spilling out across the hammock like a waterfall of sunlight.

And he has to let go of the hammock and step back because if he doesn't he’ll do something stupid, and Felicity means so much more to him than someone to kiss because she's there.

He’s halfway back inside when she calls to him.

“Oliver?”

“Yes,” he says, stopping but not turning.

“Please could you pass me my book,” she says and he turns then and she looks so adorable, lying in the hammock, glasses slightly askew, biting her lip as she points at the book lying on the porch rail.

He scoops up the paperback and steps across the hand it to her.

“Thank you,” she says, her hand brushing his as he hands the book over. She smiles and he remembers how pretty she is. It's amazing to him that he ever forgets that but this is Felicity. She’s his partner, he doesn’t think of her like that.

Or at least, he hasn't done until now.

“Anytime,” he says, then vaults the railing intending to go for a swim in the ocean

Cold water would be good right now.


	7. Friends with benefits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember this prompt it was "that time Oliver and Felicity tried friends with benefits and Oliver totally failed at it." 
> 
> But I can't remember who prompted it. Damn my memory.

He wakes up to find her getting dressed. 

The digital readout on the clock beside the hotel bed says 4:18 and Felicity is scurrying around in the darkness, trying to keep quiet and failing entirely.

“Where are you going?”

He sees her silhouette flinch.

She turns to him and her hair is still down and he wants to pull her back to bed, keep her with him.

But that's not their arrangement.

Instead, once a week they have this.

It's not his place or her place, just an empty hotel room with an easily bribed to silence desk clerk.

“I've got an early start tomorrow,” she says brightly. “I mean, today.”

“Call in sick.”

“I already used my sick days,” she says, “when we were chasing that guy with the boomerangs.”

“Ah,” he says, “right.” He’s never quite sure how to take all the small sacrifices she makes for him and his mission. She never really talks about them, just does them, and he’s left wondering just how much of her life is on hold because of him. And what that means.

He knows she’s not dating. That was part of the point of this whole arrangement to begin with. Just two friends, letting off steam, enjoying each other’s company and bodies with no deeper meaning.

But every time she leaves his bed he feels less because of it.

“You could stay,” he says, “I could buy you a dress on the way to the office.”

“Where would be open?”

“They’ll open for me.”

“You can't keep doing this Oliver,” she says, “there are some problems you can't fix by throwing money at them.”

“But I can shoot those, right?”

She smiles and he feels a little better.

“Come back to bed,” he says, “if you drive home you’ll never get back to sleep. Stay. Sleep here.”

“Tempting,” she says but she’s fastening the buttons on her blouse as she does so. “But, no. I have to go.”

She steps in close to the bed, picking her watch off of the bedside table.

He snags her wrist and pulls her down so she’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

He sweeps her hair to one side and kisses her neck.

“Stay,” he whispers against her skin, “stay with me.”

“I have to go,” she says even as she shivers at his touch. And is it wrong that he hopes the tone he hears in her voice is regret? He wants her to stay. Wants her to want to stay here with him.

But Felicity Smoak has again surprised him. He thought when she drunkenly proposed this that she would be the one to get too involved. 

Instead it’s his heart that’s committed while she walks away. 

It doesn’t occur to him that maybe she's keeping his distance for her own protection.

Instead all he sees is the fact she’s always able to leave. 

She kisses him one last time and is gone and Oliver falls back on the bed, his mind far too busy to sleep.

This will not do. There must be a way for him to be able to keep Felicity Smoak in his bed.

He just has to figure out what it is.


	8. Felicity's drink gets dosed 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is on Abbie. She prompted me with the idea and I did two versions but didn't really love either one. 
> 
> Here's the first;
> 
> Trigger warning: drinks being dosed with drugs

Felicity made a face as the creep in the too-tight Polo shirt disappeared into the bar crowd, with one last dirty look for her over his shoulder. She could handle being called a frosty bitch if it meant she didn't have to put up with him trying to handle her. Good riddance. She had come with a couple of girlfriends from work--well, acquaintances really, but wouldn't it be nice to have actual girlfriends? Or so the thought had been that spurred her into agreeing to get drinks with Paloma and Andi, but two and a half hours, two mediocre alcoholic beverages, and three sleazy pickup artists later, all hope of actual, nonvigilante friends had vanished and she hadn't seen Andi or Paloma in the last forty-five minutes.

Felicity sighed irritably, took one last long pull on her whiskey sour, and wrinkled her nose. 

"Ugh." She shook herself all over, the cloying taste of too much lemon coating her tongue. This wasn't her preferred drink by any stretch, but it was one of the last round Paloma had ordered for the group and Felicity'd been nursing it absently for the last hour.

Raising a hand for the bartender's attention, Felicity tossed a few twenties on the counter to square the tab, not trusting that either of her workmates had bothered before disappearing on her. Standing from her stool, she smoothed her cute blue shirtwaist dress. It was new and had paired adorably with her bright red kitten heels, and while she'd been pleased by it all day, it seemed a damn waste to be wearing it to an outing like this. Slipping her purse over her shoulder, Felicity began weaving her way through the overly crowded yuppie bar, already anticipating the freedom of the night air after too long in the close warmth of the bar.

As she edged around a knot of laughing twentysomethings, Felicity's vision dipped suddenly and she stumbled, catching herself against an empty high-top table. She blinked rapidly, but the world had taken on a surreal, stretched softness, and a creeping, numbing tingling as starting in her hands. Sucking in a deep breath, Felicity swore feelingly, "Shit."

Feeling as if she were moving underwater, Felicity stood straight carefully away from the table and turned her head slowly, searching. There, just a few yards to the left was the ladies' room, and remarkably no line stretched from the door. A knot of fear tightening in her gut, she picked her wobbling, slow way across the short distance to the bathroom door, deliberately keeping her breathing an even, calm pace. After she pushed inside, she made certain the small room was clear of any other women, stumbling twice in her heels and keeping one hand on a sturdy surface--the wall, the sink counter--at all times, then slid the deadbolt home in the door.

Finally, she let herself slide down the wall by the door into a crouch, put her purse into her lap, and opened it with shaking, clumsy fingers to fish out her cell. Phone in hand, Felicity hesitated before hitting speed-dial three, then sat and listened to the dull tone of the ringing. It rang. And rang.

"You have reached the voicemail of John Diggle, sec--"

"Shit," Felicity swore again, voice squeaking slightly with nerves. Hitting the "end" button, she bit her lip, then keyed in number two on her speed-dial. "Pick up, pick up, please pick up--"

"Felicity?" Oliver's voice hit her with instant relief, his amused tone making the corners of her mouth twitch despite her fear. "I thought you said you were doing some kind of girls' night out and not to call you tonight unless it was an emergency. You even made me and Digg promise under pain of credit ruin--"

"Oliver," Felicity's voice cracked on his name. Nice as it was to hear him playfully teasing, her vision was filling with colorful spots and she wasn't sure how much longer she would be coherent. "It's an emergency. I'm at some bar on 29th called Limerence, and I think somebody slipped something in my drink. I can't really walk very well right now, and everything's going kind of, of cartoony, and there were like three guys who were hitting on me and I don't know which one might've tried to drug me and Andi and Paloma are gone--"

"Felicity!" Oliver snapped, voice hard, tone grim, and Felicity realized he'd said her name several times now. "I need you to tell me where you are, and I need you to tell me right now."

Felicity swallowed hard, blinking back tears. He was using his Hood voice, and logically she understood that it wasn't her he was upset with, but it was difficult not to be just a little intimidated when he growled like that. "I already said. Some bar on 29th. I did, didn't I? Limerick, no, Limerence--I, I think."

There was a single beat of silence, as if he was gathering his patience. "You did already say that, Felicity. I need you to tell me where in the bar you are. You need to get somewhere safe. I am coming to get you, but I need you to get somewhere safe until I get there. Can you alert the bartender?"

"I didn't think about that," she blurted. "I locked myself in the bathroom."

"Good!" Oliver's voice was infused with reassurance. It helped, a little. "That's good, Felicity. Now listen to me, I'm going to need to hang up so I can drive, because I intend to break several speed limits and it's best if I don't do that while on the phone. Do you think you can stay awake for me? Just stay awake til I get there, Felicity, that's all I need you to do. I'm on my way."

"Okay, Oliver." She pulled in a shuddering breath. "Just. Please, hurry. Everything's starting to... sway."

"I'm coming as fast I can, Felicity, I promise. Nothing is going to happen to you, I swear. Just stay awake, wait for me. I'm on my way."

And then he hung up.

* * *

Oliver hammered on the bathroom door with his fist, more concerned with every moment that passed.

“Sir!” A bartender said, appearing out of nowhere to grab at his arm.

Oliver shrugged his hand off easily.

“My friend’s in there,” he said, “she was drugged, she needs help.”

“Step back sir,” the bartender said, getting in Oliver’s face in a way that wouldn't have been intimidating even before he knew how to kill a man with his pinkie finger.

“Get help,” Oliver said. He was preparing to kick the door down when he heard the tell-tale noise of a deadbolt sliding back and saw a bleary eyed Felicity peered out through the barely open door.

“Felicity,” he said, reaching for her.

“Oliver?” She replied her forehead creasing, “why...?” But she didn't seem to have enough energy left to finish the thought and she sagged against the door frame.

Oliver steps in and scoops her up.

“It’s okay,” he says, “you’re safe.”


	9. Felicity's drink is dosed 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's version 2 for Abbie. 
> 
> This one got darker quickly. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: drinks being dosed with drugs, creepy guys

Felicity made a face as the creep in the too-tight Polo shirt disappeared into the bar crowd, with one last dirty look for her over his shoulder. She could handle being called a frosty bitch if it meant she didn't have to put up with him trying to handle her. Good riddance. She had come with a couple of girlfriends from work--well, acquaintances really, but wouldn't it be nice to have actual girlfriends? Or so the thought had been that spurred her into agreeing to get drinks with Paloma and Andi, but two and a half hours, two mediocre alcoholic beverages, and three sleazy pickup artists later, all hope of actual, nonvigilante friends had vanished and she hadn't seen Andi or Paloma in the last forty-five minutes.

Felicity sighed irritably, took one last long pull on her whiskey sour, and wrinkled her nose. 

"Ugh." She shook herself all over, the cloying taste of too much lemon coating her tongue. This wasn't her preferred drink by any stretch, but it was one of the last round Paloma had ordered for the group and Felicity'd been nursing it absently for the last hour.

Raising a hand for the bartender's attention, Felicity tossed a few twenties on the counter to square the tab, not trusting that either of her workmates had bothered before disappearing on her. Standing from her stool, she smoothed her cute blue shirtwaist dress. It was new and had paired adorably with her bright red kitten heels, and while she'd been pleased by it all day, it seemed a damn waste to be wearing it to an outing like this. Slipping her purse over her shoulder, Felicity began weaving her way through the overly crowded yuppie bar, already anticipating the freedom of the night air after too long in the close warmth of the bar.

As she edged around a knot of laughing twentysomethings, Felicity's vision dipped suddenly and she stumbled, catching herself against an empty high-top table. She blinked rapidly, but the world had taken on a surreal, stretched softness, and a creeping, numbing tingling as starting in her hands. Sucking in a deep breath, Felicity swore feelingly, "Shit."

Feeling as if she were moving underwater, Felicity stood straight carefully away from the table and turned her head slowly, searching. There, just a few yards to the left was the ladies' room, and remarkably no line stretched from the door. A knot of fear tightening in her gut, she picked her wobbling, slow way across the short distance to the bathroom door, deliberately keeping her breathing an even, calm pace. After she pushed inside, she made certain the small room was clear of any other women, stumbling twice in her heels and keeping one hand on a sturdy surface--the wall, the sink counter--at all times, then slid the deadbolt home in the door.

Finally, she let herself slide down the wall by the door into a crouch, put her purse into her lap, and opened it with shaking, clumsy fingers to fish out her cell. Phone in hand, Felicity hesitated before hitting speed-dial three, then sat and listened to the dull tone of the ringing. It rang. And rang.

"You have reached the voicemail of John Diggle, sec--"

"Shit," Felicity swore again, voice squeaking slightly with nerves. Hitting the "end" button, she bit her lip, then keyed in number two on her speed-dial. "Pick up, pick up, please pick up--"

"Felicity?" Oliver's voice hit her with instant relief, his amused tone making the corners of her mouth twitch despite her fear. "I thought you said you were doing some kind of girls' night out and not to call you tonight unless it was an emergency. You even made me and Digg promise under pain of credit ruin--"

"Oliver," Felicity's voice cracked on his name. Nice as it was to hear him playfully teasing, her vision was filling with colorful spots and she wasn't sure how much longer she would be coherent. "It's an emergency. I'm at some bar on 29th called Limerence, and I think somebody slipped something in my drink. I can't really walk very well right now, and everything's going kind of, of cartoony, and there were like three guys who were hitting on me and I don't know which one might've tried to drug me and Andi and Paloma are gone--"

"Felicity!" Oliver snapped, voice hard, tone grim, and Felicity realized he'd said her name several times now. "I need you to tell me where you are, and I need you to tell me right now."

Felicity swallowed hard, blinking back tears. He was using his Hood voice, and logically she understood that it wasn't her he was upset with, but it was difficult not to be just a little intimidated when he growled like that. "I already said. Some bar on 29th. I did, didn't I? Limerick, no, Limerence--I, I think."

There was a single beat of silence, as if he was gathering his patience. "You did already say that, Felicity. I need you to tell me where in the bar you are. You need to get somewhere safe. I am coming to get you, but I need you to get somewhere safe until I get there. Can you alert the bartender?"

"I didn't think about that," she blurted. "I locked myself in the bathroom."

"Good!" Oliver's voice was infused with reassurance. It helped, a little. "That's good, Felicity. Now listen to me, I'm going to need to hang up so I can drive, because I intend to break several speed limits and it's best if I don't do that while on the phone. Do you think you can stay awake for me? Just stay awake til I get there, Felicity, that's all I need you to do. I'm on my way."

"Okay, Oliver." She pulled in a shuddering breath. "Just. Please, hurry. Everything's starting to... sway."

"I'm coming as fast I can, Felicity, I promise. Nothing is going to happen to you, I swear. Just stay awake, wait for me. I'm on my way."

And then he hung up.

* * *

Oliver hadn’t actually visited this particular bar before, so he had to push through the crowd blindly in search of the ladies room.

There was a long moment of worry and dead until he finally spotted the neon sign. But when he bypassed the line he found an unlocked door, a bathroom in full working operation and no Felicity.

“Shit.”

“You can't be in here!” A drunk brunette yelled at him but he had no time for her.

He needed to find Felicity.

Oliver pulled out his cell phone and pressed redial, turning to exit when he heard the tell-tone sound of the custom ringtone Felicity had chosen for him.

The James Bond theme.

Oliver had a sudden flash memory of the day Felicity programmed the music in, explaining her choices. Bond was apparently appropriate because of his nightclub cover. Or possibly the car. 

For the rest of the day Felicity had called him James and Diggle insisted that their coffee was served “shaken, not stirred.”

It had been a good day.

And now her phone was ringing in here.

Oliver ducked down, ignoring the annoyed yelling from the women around him and found Felicity’s phone tucked under the sink.

Wherever she was she didn't have any way to call for help.

“Shit,” he swore again and pushed his way back into the main part of the bar, searching the faces of the crowd as he went.

* * *

“Shhhhh.” A cool hand stroked her hair and Felicity relaxed.

She was being carried in someone’s arms. 

Oliver.

She didn't know anyone else who could or would carry her like that, so it had to Oliver.

She tried to look up but the world felt so overwhelming full full of color and noise that she squeezed her eyes closed and buried her face against his shoulder. 

She could hear his heartbeat through the layers of clothing and she tried to focus on that and block out the rest.

Everything was so loud.

Then suddenly it wasn’t.

Felicity opened her eyes to darkness and a closed door between her and the club.

She sighed with relief and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said weakly. “So loud...”

His hand stroked over her hair again and then her balance shifted and she realised that Oliver had sat down and was holding her on his lap.

It was comforting to be held. She didn’t want to be let go of just yet, not while her head was still loopy, so she twisted her fingers into his shirt, holding on tight and she heard a low chuckle.

She had enough time to think that that didn't sound like Oliver at all, and then suddenly there was a hand on her bare thigh and she knew without a doubt that it wasn’t Oliver’s lap she was sitting on.

But her body felt too heavy to do anything about it.

And so even as her mind screamed at her limbs, all she seemed able to do was tilt her head back and stare up at the stranger in confusion. 

* * *

Oliver checked the rest of the bar but there wasn't another bathroom where Felicity might have sheltered. The bouncers had no helpful information to share and the serving staff just shrugged when he asked about blondes in distress.

Then he remembered the tracker.

It was a slim chance but it was better than nothing.

On a recent mission Felicity had embedded a slim GPS tracker into her watch as a backup, and he’d seen her wear the watch from time to time in her daily life too.

He hoped to God she was wearing it now.

He swiped into her phone, the system opening up when he tried her birthday as the passcode (and considering what a stickler Felicity usually was for security that was unexpected luck but at least it means he has access to her apps) and navigated to the GPS tracker she wrote for him.

He doesn't have it on his phone - he’s never needed it on his phone - but when he gets her back the first thing she’s doing is downloading that for him; he won't wager her life on the good luck of finding her cell phone ever again.

The system pinged.

Oliver set off, pushing through the crowd. The phone told him she was within fifty feet and he won't lose her, not now.

* * *

Felicity squinted up at the man above her and realised where she knows him from.

The bartender.

She remembered how she smiled at him as he made the whiskey sours Paloma ordered. He seemed nice.

He reached in towards the neckline of her dress and Felicity managed to lift a hand and bat his grasping fingers aside.

“No,” she moaned, her intoxicated mind dragging the word out like a moan.

His hands locked around her arms and he lifted her like a rag doll and she couldn’t think, couldn’t move, was only vaguely aware that this should not be happening and then -

Then she’s knocked backwards and she lands on sofa cushions as her head spun.

There’s noise. Angry grunts and the sound of flesh on flesh impact.

Felicity lay against the cushions, lacking the energy to move. She dug her nails into her own palms and tried to focus.

Focus.

Somewhere off to the side she heard a yell cut off abruptly and then someone was there, leaning over her and she had just enough energy to moan, “No,” before everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering Oliver would have saved her before anything worse happened...


	10. Interrupted private time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a tumblr prompt from effie214
> 
> Prompt: Oliver/Felicity interrupted private time

"Don’t you knock?" Felicity yelps, pulling at her half-open blouse.

Queen just glares.

Roy makes a swift exit, suddenly understanding why Diggle was so uncharacteristically drinking a soda in Verdant. He should have recognised the glint in the former bodyguard’s eye already. With hindsight he can see the amusement telegraphed by the older man’s eyebrows.

There’s no point in complaining to Queen, pointing out that sometimes they eat off of that table. Sometimes they sew up wounds on that table. Roy was bleeding there only last week.

Queen won’t care, he’s too in love with the blonde hacker. Can’t keep his hands off her. And Diggle has already made it clear that to get between the vigilante and the vigilante’s new girlfriend is something he won’t condone.

No, Roy is on his own here, the sole voice for propriety in Team Arrow. 

He smirks at that. Him, the boy from the Glades, the trouble-maker, the one sentenced to juvie, he’s now as starched and repressed as one of those rich old women who used to turn their noses up at his wallet chain and accent.

This won’t do.

Roy checks his watch. Generally Thea’s in her office at this time of the day. Maybe he should drop by, remind her of how they used to pass time back when he was the bartender and she was the boss.

After all, Queen’s not the only one with a hot girl in the building.


	11. Shotgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from inlovewithfictionalmen
> 
> John Diggle: word were passed in a shotgun blast/troubled times had come to my hometown

It hits him like a freight truck and even as he falls, even as his body goes into shock and his nerves scream and he feels the dampness of his own blood - 

Even then - 

He can’t help but think that that hurt a lot more than he thought it would.

He’s been shot before, high caliber, low caliber, handguns, rifles, semi-automatics, automatics, everything really - apart from a shotgun.

It’s the weight of the blast that surprises him. He’s been pierced by bullets, hit by rifle stocks, even burnt by flying casings, but he’s never felt the breath leave his chest like a punch to the solar plexis.

Shotgun blast is the wrong word, he thinks, it should be shotgun punch.

And then Felicity is there, applying pressure and talking about how close the ambulance is and that Oliver has already taken down the shooter.

And he know’s he’s going to be okay.

He’s lying in a Starling City alleyway, thousands of miles from the sandbox, but he’s got his unit with him, his team, his back-up.

He know’s he’s going to be okay.

And he also knows he’s investing in kevlar in a variety of sizes.

Because he has no intention of taking a shotgun blast to the chest ever again.


	12. Well thought out plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This came from slowdancinginasundrenchedworld and the prompt was:
> 
> "I shut off my feelings, my wants, my plans, even my thoughts of having a future. I simply wanted to exist. Then you came and interfered with my well-thought plan."
> 
> Okay so while it could be Oliver saying this, my initial thought was that it’s Felicity and it’s *the secret*, you know the one they alluded to back in her profile in the comic, that *mysterious past* we’ve all wondered about.
> 
> What if she’s sick?

He stares at the piece of paper in his hand. He shouldn’t have looked at the opened mail on her kitchen counter but in the few months they’ve been together he’s spent more time at hers than the mansion and he feels more at home in her company than he ever did among the dark wood panels and leather sofas of his official residence.

And so while he waited for her to arrive home from her book club (“because everyone needs a hobby Oliver Queen, and archery was taken”) he had tidied the kitchen, stacked dishes in the dishwasher, piled up her bills, and been struck by the incongruity of this one envelope, the seal opened but the letter still in place.

It’s a notification of the payout of her life insurance. Taken early due to terminal illness.

The rest of the words blur in front of his eyes. 

Terminal illness. 

That’s all he sees.

"Oh, Oliver."

He looks up and she’s there, standing in the doorway, still in her brightly colored trench coat.

"I was going to tell you," she says, "once everything was signed off."

"How long?" He manages to ask.

"Six months," she says, "maybe nine, if I’m lucky."

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"It’s hereditary," she shrugs, "I’ve known for years this day would come. And so I shut off my feelings, my wants, my plans, even my thoughts of having a future. I simply wanted to exist. Then you came and interfered with my well-thought plan," she sniffs. "You with your quest and your arrows and your flimsy lies. You made me want more."

And she’s crying now as he folds her into his arms. Inwardly he resolves that they will fix this, they will conquer it. He doesn’t know how but he knows he can’t lose her. Not when he’s only just realised what she means to him.

They stand together for a long time. 

And then it hits him.

Two words.

Lazarus pit.


	13. Panic mode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from notababoonbrandishingastick/ferggirl:
> 
> Team Arrow goes into panic mode when Thea starts to suspect what's happening in the basement.

She’s not an idiot. Even if it took her longer than she would like to admit to figure it out. Though what really gave the game away were their panicked attempts to keep it from her.

*****

"Where’ve you been all day, Harper?"

"Around."

"Around where, you weren’t on the floor, in my office, the stock room, the restroom, or napping on that fugly couch you made me out in the employees lounge. So where were you?"

"Around, Thea, God! It’s like being back at school."

"Was there a mysterious basement at your school then?"

"What? No! No basement, mysterious or otherwise… I think we need more schnapps at the bar, I’ll be right back."

******

"Ollie are you sure you gave me all the keys to the club? I don’t think I have the one for the basement door?"

******

"Do you know a good locksmith?" She asks her brother’s bodyguard. "There’s a door at Verdant I don’t have a key for."

John Diggle is an impressively stoic man, but the eye twitch speaks volumes.

******

Emails about shoe sales in stores on the other side of town appear in her inbox. She doesn’t take the bait.

******

She turns on the GPS tracking on Oliver’s phone one night under the guise of installing Flappy Bird. She links it to her Find my friends app.

The next day his details have disappeared from her screen. And he’s not easily tempted into giving up his phone again.

******

"Is my brother free on Friday? I’d like to throw him a surprise party."

Oliver’s blonde assistant blinks at her.

"A surprise party? But it’s not his birthday…."

"Then it really will be a surprise. Is he free?"

"Maybe?"

"It’s an either/or question, either he’s free or he’s not."

"There might be a last minute meeting."

"Yeah," Thea says, letting Felicity see her narrow her eyes, "he does have a lot of those."

*******

"Sara, you’ve slept with Ollie. What do you think the likelihood is that he’s hiding a sex dungeon under my club?"

Her newest bartender splutters and turns red. Thea considers it a win.

******

In the end she cheats. She makes a show of leaving early, then she makes sure her phone’s GPS is on and sends on a courier bike on a tour of Starling City, far from the club. Then she sneaks back in and waits.

Slowly they all appear.

The blonde assistant, Felicity. The bodyguard, Diggle. Sara Lance.

And Roy Harper.

She catches the door behind Roy as quietly as she can and follows him in.

For all of his suspiciously improved hearing, he never turns.

"A sex dungeon? Seriously?"

Thea turns to see Oliver behind her, an exasperated look on his face.

"Well if I came out and said, ‘brother dear are you the nut bag who dresses in green and shoots arrows at criminals’ would you really have given me a straight answer?"

Oliver shakes his head. “But a sex dungeon?”

"Got your attention, didn’t it? Plus it made Sara go an alarming shade of puce. I really didn’t know people could turn that color."

"Come on," he sighs, "I’ll introduce you properly."


	14. Family dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And another prompt from notababoonbrandishingastick:
> 
> Sara and Laurel, next attempt at family dinner. (You can include Oliver if you want, or maybe Sara wises up and leaves him at home?)

This time Sara cooked.

Culinary skills weren’t highly prised by the League, but Nyssa had learned her first knife skills from her mother not her father, and still liked to cook curried lamb and those green vegetables Sara had never been able to pronounce when the cold winter months closed in.

Sara wasn’t quite able to find the same long thin beans Nyssa had favored at the grocery store, but tender stem broccoli and fresh green beans would do.

Laurel was volunteering again, working long hours with disadvantaged youth. Sara had the story from her father. He’d turned Laurel on to the project, and Sara had sent Sin in once or twice to make sure her sister was doing okay.

And she was, Sin reported, but just looked so thin. Ill. Wasting away.

And so here Sara was, having broken in to Laurel’s apartment ten minutes after her sister had left for work. It wasn’t really a break in, technically. Nothing was broken. There were few locks Sara’s training hadn’t prepared her to take apart, and Laurel’s were child’s play.

The lamb took twelve hours to cook in a clay oven up a mountain, but Sara hoped the internet was right about adapting recipes for a fan oven. She boned the joint, made the source put the dish in the oven.

And waited.

Patience was a skill the league taught, and waiting wasn’t something Sara had found hard in the past but memories of her last visit to this apartment weighed on her. She reviewed her sister’s drunken words over and over again. She checked the door for the mark the glass must have made but there was no dint to be seen. It was as if the whole thing never happened.

But it did.

Sara had almost convinced herself that she should go when she heard the key in the lock, over an hour before she had expected it.

"I don’t know what you mean," her father’s voice said, "I think the team could go all the way this year."

"That’s what you said last year," Sara heard Laurel say, "and you were wrong then too."

Sara hovered, out of sight, listening to the easy banter between her sister and father, and realised that once again she was trying to force herself upon her family. She should have offered to cook, not broken in and taken over the stove. She should have called, or emailed, anything but this.

She was halfway out the window when she heard it.

"Something smells good. Laurel, you never told me you bought a crock pot."

"I didn’t."

And Sara froze, all her training forgotten as she heard her sister’s voice much closer than anticipated.

She turned, crouched on the counter top, to see Laurel standing in the doorway, a large bag of groceries in her arms.

Laurel cocked a eyebrow.

Sara felt herself inwardly quail, the same way she always did when faced with her older, infinitely more glamorous sister. The one who went to law school. The one who didn’t have to get marooned on an island to know who she was.

Laurel looked at her and sighed.

"If you cooked I guess I’d better set the table then," she said, and turned to put the grocery bag down on the countertop.

Sara stayed where she was, unsure of her welcome.

"Are you coming?" Laurel asked, "I’m sure something need to be done with those vegetables and you know my abilities end with the power button on the microwave."

Sara blinked.

"Dad!" Laurel yelled, "pour three glasses of soda. Sara made us dinner."


	15. Poor butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie's prompt for Flommy UST. Not sure I entirely fulfilled it...
> 
> Do I need to warn for too many Untouchables references?

Tommy Merlyn was not her type. He wasn’t. He was loud and overly charming - the kind of rich arsehole that Oliver played in public. There was no depth there, no subtlety. He didn’t see the little people. He liked to drink and he liked to party and he had a whole history of being Oliver’s wingman and Felicity just *didn’t get it.*

What was the appeal? Why did Oliver put up with it?

And then Tommy saved them all from Detective Lance, clearing out the basement and filling it with booze shipments in wooden boxes that made her think of that scene in the Untouchables.

Oliver Queen. Poor butterfly.

She was sitting at the bar a little later, watching the scene in question on her tablet. The bad guy of the day had been vanquished, Oliver and Diggle gone on their separate ways, and she was debating whether she should get a head start on the basement clean up or just head home for a bubble bath and a glass of red.

"Poor butterfly?" A voice said, "how very fitting."

She looked up to see Tommy, shirt sleeves rolled up, a smear of dust or dirt on his cheek. 

She blinked. He looked…normal. Tired after a long day. Not the aloof fashionable figure she was used to glancing across the room.

"Oliver Queen, poor butterfly," he said and she grinned.

"Yes," she said, "exactly."

"I would have liked to have done it with parasols," Tommy said, "but I think it would have given the game away."

"There’s always next time," she replied.

"Next time I may need some help," Tommy said, "there’s only so many successful ways to throw the fuzz off your trail."

"Sure," she said, "my neck’s on the line too. I don’t think I’d do well in prison."

"We’re too pretty for prison," Tommy said, leaning over the bar and producing a half full bottle of red wine and two glasses. "The world needs people like us on the outside. Makes it more aspirational."

"I guess," Felicity said, a little uncertainly. She had to admit that she wasn’t used to being categorised in with someone as attractive as Tommy. Her high school memories of gawkiness, glasses and retainers were still too close.

"Drink with me, blondie," Tommy said, "that’s the Starling City way."

And so she accepted the wine glass he poured her, and had to admit to herself as she sipped that maybe she was starting to see the appeal. Maybe.


	16. Save a kiss for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from mimozka: Oliver telling Felicity goodbye over the comms like Steve did with Peggy in Cap 1. Blame Fina and her “Be Still” sequel for my angsty mood! :)
> 
> Warning: angst.
> 
> References the season 2 finale, so spoilers! Beware!

"I have to bring the plane down."

Here’s silence from the other end of the radio. He can’t even hear her breathing. The cockpit is cold, arctic air whistling through the broken window. Really he’s amazed he can even feel his hands.

"No," she says over comms and it sounds awfully final, "if you bring the plane down you will die Oliver."

"If I don’t everyone in Starling will die."

"There has to be another way," she says, "is there any sort of computer system you can patch me into, I could alter the GPS, send you to an airport. Or I could pilot remotely while you parachute out. Or -" she descends into babbling, a thousand different possible plans, none of which will work because this was always meant to play out like this, this elaborate revenge of Slade’s, and this time the man has the better cards and no blind spot.

Felicity says something about aiming the plane at the sun, pushing into the upper atmosphere and burning up the chemicals and he can’t help it, he giggles.

She stops babbling immediately.

"Oliver, why are you laughing? Is it oxygen deprivation? Oh god, it is, isn’t it? It can make you hallucinate-"

"I’m not hallucinating," he says. He’s about to die and he knows it even if she doesn’t but her voice in his ear makes him smile and it always has.

"I should have kissed you," he says. "I should have kissed you that night at the mansion, that night I told you I loved you. I should have kissed you."

"You sold it well enough without it," she says, sounding strangled, "you didn’t need to kiss me."

"I did need to kiss you," he admits, "I always need to kiss you and I’m sorry Felicity, I’m sorry it took me dying to tell you but I never lied, I meant every word of it. And I should have kissed you."

There’s a silence that he feels lasts forever.

"Then you’d better come back here and kiss me," she says, "because you can’t say that to me and not follow it up."

"Yes ma’am," he smiles. "I’ll be right over."

"You might need to give me some time," she says, "I’m not really dressed for a kiss, I need to put on a dress, some lipstick."

"How about an hour?" He offers, "I’ll take you to dinner and you can tell me all the reasons why I’m an idiot who should have done this sooner."

"I’d like that," she says and he can hear the tears in her voice.

"I love you, Felicity," he says, "I’ll be there as soon as I can."

"I love you too," she replies and he smiles at the sound. 

Then he forces the plane’s nose down, aiming for the water, leans back in his chair and thinks about kissing Felicity Smoak. 

He’ll bring flowers with him, he thinks, big colorful daisies. Something that will make her smile.

He can’t wait to see what that smile tastes like.


	17. It's different in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from hopedreamlovepray: Oliver/Felicity - locked out or locked in (your choice)

"You said you could pick locks!"

Oliver takes the paper clips out of his mouth before he responds. He’s had to hold then there because he needs both hands on the lock and if he puts them on the floor he’ll never find them again. It’s so dark in here he can’t see his hand in front of his face.

"I can pick locks," he replies, but he doesn’t put the clips back where he was holding them with his teeth because he knows there will be a follow up.

"We have been in here for hours," she says, and he can hear the edge of desperation in her voice. "We don’t even know where *here* is!"

"Felicity," he says, sharp enough to get her attention. "I’ll get us out of here, I promise, and I can pick locks, I wasn’t lying, but it’s pitch black, we can’t see anything, and paper clips are not as good at hair grips for picking locks, it takes time."

"When we get out of here I promise I will start wearing hair grips just in case this happens again," she says, "but all I had on me was paper clips! I’m sorry!"

"Don’t panic," he orders, but he can already tell it’s too late.

"Hair grips are such a pain, they always dig into my skull, I hate wearing them," she babbles, "why can’t we just sew a lock picking kit into all of your suits. I meant I can’t sew, but you must be able to, I can’t imagine you’ve got a dry cleaner who respects your privacy as the Hood long enough to patch the suit, mine seems to think she’s a honorary great aunt or something, always asking about when I’m getting married-"

"Felicity," he interrupts and reaches for her. His outstretched hand finds her stomach, then slips around so it lies on her hip and squeezes. "It’s gonna be okay, but you have to stay calm."

"I’m calm, who’s not calm? I am so calm, I can show you calm."

Oliver slips the paper clips into a pocket and stands up, keeping his hand on her hip so he knows where she is. He brings his other hand up and is almost surprised as how it goes straight to cup her cheek.

Even in the dark he knows exactly where she is.

She goes silent under his touch but he can feel how she turns her face into his hand, rubs her cheek against his palm like she did that time Diggle dosed her on Oxy so he could sew up her shoulder.

In the dark it’s easier to touch her. It’s easy to touch her anyway but when he can see her it’s easier to maintain some facade of distance.

Here he knows she’s right there only because his hands are on her body.

She shifts under his touch and he feels her finger tips brush over his lips.

It’s amazing really how they both know just where to aim. It’s not like they’ve ever done this before. He knows he’s always hyper aware of her. He didn’t realise she had the same awareness of him.

They’re trapped in the dark and she’s panicking. It would be easy, justifiable even to tighten his grip on her hip, tip her chin up so his lips have easy access to hers.

It would be offering comfort. Nothing more. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. 

And then suddenly there is light and Oliver spins, hands coming up ready to protect her from their captors.

Diggle grins at them.

"Ready to go?"

"So ready," Felicity says, pushing past him to hug Diggle. He envies that touch, wants her embraces to only be his. He pushes that thought down. It’s not helping. 

"You’re both okay?"

"Fine," Felicity says, "though my faith in Oliver’s lock picking skills has been shaken. And I have an new appreciation for hair grips."

"Sounds fun," Diggle says, as he turns to escort her out of wherever here is.

Oliver follows, ostensibly watching their backs but mostly just trying to forget what her fingertips felt like on his lips. It was only because it was dark, he tells himself, nothing more. If he says if often enough, maybe he’ll even believe it.


	18. A bird, uncaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from the inestimable Ferggirl (notababoonbrandishingastick): I just, I need more about Sara. What was her mindset in leaving? Why was she so willing to go? What is she going back to? Is she going as a hero or an assassin? Is there a way to be both? I want to know.
> 
> Spoilers for the season 2 finale.

There isn’t a place for her here in Starling.

Or no, that’s not right, there is a place - it’s a the 4th side of a triangle on team Arrow or those nights she spent in Ollie’s bed knowing that it wasn’t going to last, or the look on her father’s face when he knows she’s about to risk her life. There’s a place here for her - an empty space that Sara Lance can just about fit into. 

But it’s been years since she thought of herself as anything other than the Canary, and being Sara again feels… incomplete. A pretence. 

When Laurel helps her see that the Canary can be more than just a weapon of the league, she finds clarity. She can be both Sara and the Canary - and the Canary can be both killer and hero.

There’s a peace in duality suddenly, whereas before all there was was conflict.

When she calls Nyssa to come and save the city it doesn’t feel like giving up. It doesn’t feel like going backwards. It feels like acknowledging that she can be the woman Nyssa saved and the woman who saves others. 

She doesn’t have to be a caged bird. She can be free. And freedom is choosing who you want to love.

In the end, she’s not even surprised that her heart doesn’t choose Oliver.


End file.
